Clipped Wings Prompts
by DismayEngine
Summary: One shots that I write off of prompts received via my tumblr(totalityofthegrump) for my Clipped Wings AU
1. Chapter 1

"Stan, Stan we really shouldn't be doing this," Stanford tried to tell his twin.

Stanley laughed, "Aw, c'mon poindexter, don't you wanna fly?"

Stanford pushed his glasses up and retorted, "Of course I do, but we're _twelve._ You heard Ma: we aren't ready. And we really shouldn't be trying to fly on the beach–the wind–"

"Will help!" Stan interjected. "All we gotta do is open our wings, flap a little, and fly!"

Stanford scuffed his shoe into the sand, "..What if someone _sees?_ " He extended his left wings, revealing one of the smaller set he always hid below the larger ones. Being made fun of for his extra fingers was bad enough, and there weren't a lot of winged people in the area to begin with. Whenever anyone outside of the family found out about his extra wings, his extra abnormality, they always gawked. So he hid the smaller wings carefully.

His twin grinned, "We fly so high no one can see us! 'Sides, I keep tellin' ya–you're cool, not weird." He extended his wings, still not fully devoid of downy feathers of childhood. "Now, 'cmon!" He took off running and flapping. At first he made no progress, but eventually he managed to get a few feet off the ground.

Stanford just stood there and watched. He wanted too fly, he really did; but his sense of adventure had its limits.

Stanley had managed to gain a whole 20 feet in altitude, and was clumsily flying back to Stanford. "C'mon!"

"….I–…Alright!" And with that, Stanford opened his wings, normally so tense from being held close to his back. As he was going to try taking off, a gust of wind came up, almost knocking him over. While he was largely unaffected, the scream/yelp from Stanley announced that his twin was less lucky. "Stanley!" He raced over to where he had fallen.

Stan was cradling one of his arms, but he seemed okay other than a few scrapes and bruises. "Don't tell Ma," he said, wincing as he stood up.

"Sure thing–as long as you teach me how to fly," Stanford grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

Stan looked up at the figure that had emerged from the portal. After all these years, he'd finally gotten Ford back. His brother hadn't aged half as badly as he had, but he'd definitely been through the wringer. His feathers were in a disarray(not half as bad as Stan's own, but that couldn't be comfortable), and the wings that Stan remembered always being held close were raised in a threatening display. The once snowy wings were tinged grey and had obviously not been cleaned in a while. Taking in Ford's appearance made Stan more and more regretful he hadn't managed to get the portal working earlier.

Stanford was almost struck dumb by the state of his twin's wings. What had happened to them? A good portion of the feathers were _missing,_ and those that remained were obviously not in good shape. Stan hadn't exactly been looking his best when Ford last saw him, but this deterioration was…concerning. It almost stopped him from expressing how stupid reopening that thrice damned portal was. Almost. But Ford's wings were definitely in a worse state. Not being able to _use_ one of his wings if definitely worse.

"Brother!" Stan exclaimed, going for a hug.

Stanford growled and punched him instead; a brief scuffle ensued, aggravating both of their old injuries. After they broke apart, Stanford stepped back, subconsciously shielding his injured wing, "Do you know what you've done? There's probably a rift eating at reality now! I wrote warnings against this for a _reason_ Stanley _!_ "

"I saved you, so warnings smarnings!" Stan retorted, rubbing his shoulder. He noticed how Ford was holding his wings, "Looks like you need some help with your wings anyways, poindexter."

"Help? From you? After what you did?" Ford retorted acidly, pulling his wings closer to his body.

"Wait…Stanley?" Dipper asked.

"But your name is Stanford," Mabel said, turning to Stan.

"Wha- _-You took my name?!_ " Stanford practically squawked.

Stanley sighed, "It's…a long story"


	3. Chapter 3

For the prompt: maybe stan dealing with sleeping in his car with wings? basically talking about his Shenanigans while homeless, except with wings. i don't imagine those helped him much in prison.

* * *

Stan sighed. No money. Or at least no where near enough for a motel room. Well shit. That meant sleeping in the car. Again.

That was a joke, 'sleeping in the car'. More like 'laying back and closing his eyes only for his wings to cramp or feathers to get caught on something then eventually passing out'.

He stretched out his wings as best he could in the cramped space, but it wasn't like he was one of those lucky bastards with sparrow wings or something. Oh no, bird of prey wings ran in the Pines family. "Be proud of it!" Pops had always said. And he couldn't even get something reasonable like Ford's owl wings or Pops' hawk wings; no sir, not Stanley Pines. He got to try and cram freakin eagle wings into a car for hours and hours a day, and now into the night. He was pretty sure his life was a joke, and was just waiting for the punchline at this point.

Maybe he could go sniffing around town for some underground boxing matches tomorrow. People tended to pay good money to see two 'wingies' fight. 'Specially 'round these parts, where wings were a little rarer. It was fucking demeaning, but it would mean money for a bed.

He shifted, trying to find some semblance of comfort; swearing when all he managed to do was pull out some feathers.

Yeah, life was just a peach.


	4. Chapter 4

Warning: there is pain ahead. I had a request for how Stanford got one of his wings mangled.

* * *

The first few days after he came through the portal were tense, to say the least. He, admittedly, was partially to blame for that. Stanford sighed, he'd taken refuge in the bathroom; avoiding his brother's quiet anger, and hoping to take a shower. He had definitely missed hot water. Well, hot water that was non-poisonous and not heated to a lethal temperature.

Much had been made over the last first days(mostly by the children) of the many layers he was wearing. He was fairly certain that Stan assumed it was his latest tactic to hide his secondary wings. In that respect, Ford's twin would not be entirely wrong. As he shed his coat, one could spot exactly why Ford's secondary wings were never seen these days. The right secondary was held close to his side and at an odd angle.

This, in addition to the multitude of scars he had acquired over the years was the reason for the layers. The first dimension he had landed in was a hostile one, populated with all sorts of nasty beasts. Nasty beasts with a cruel intelligence.

They had grabbed him soon after he appeared. All claws and snarls. They had a language, but one he could scarcely begin to comprehend. He had lost consciousness and woken up in a box of some sort(he refused to call it a room). The creatures had poked and prodded him, but were especially fascinated by his wings. They would drop him in seemingly bottomless shafts to see how long he would endure. Feathers were pulled, and if he cried out pain would be his reward.

Then...Then he lost use of one of his secondary wings.

He had made yet another bid for freedom. This time he could actually see a tear in the fabric of reality. No matter where it led, it would still be better. He was so close-

One of the creatures had gotten close enough to slash at his wings. Ford had managed to pull his primary wing out of the way, but had failed to move his secondary.

The next dimension was a primitive sort of woodland. A definite improvement, but devoid of any form of medical assistance.

Ford shuddered involuntarily and turned on the water. That was a pain he did not care to relive. He was lucky he made it out of that dimension with _any_ wings.

So engrossed in these thoughts, Ford had failed to hear the knocking on the door.  
"What, are you deaf? I know you're in there Ford!" Stan shouted though the door. "I'm not a patient man!"

Ford shook himself from his thoughts, "This is still my house, Stanley!"

"Yeah well some of us actually have to use the john instead of prissing in front of the mirror!" Stan hollered, opening the door. "Now get ou-...Ford, what's wrong with your wing?"

Ford pulled his primary wing over the maimed secondary, "Nothing, Stanley."

"That wasn't nothing!" Stan retorted. "What the hell happened?" He moved toward Ford before the other could react, moving the larger wing out of he way in a surprisingly gentle fashion. He stopped in shock; the secondary wing had heavy scarring and looked to have been broken at least once. "Ford...that's not nothing."

Ford reflexively snapped his primary wings into a defensive position, snarling " _Do not touch me-_ " before realizing what he was doing. "I'll...I'll take my coat and leave." He quickly shut off the water and fled with his overcoat.

Leaving Stan alone with nothing but the sound of the drain.


	5. Chapter 5

Stanford's college days

* * *

Ford looked down at the map in his hand yet again, adjusting his bags. Looking up at the building, he checked that he had arrived at the correct hall before stepping inside.

His room assignment told him he was on the fifth floor. Stairs, wonderful. Did everyone think that just because someone had wings meant they could fling themselves out a window at any time?

Trudging up the stairs, he dodged people with boxes, families arguing, and a couch that had gotten away from its handlers.

Sure, it wasn't his dream school, but shouldn't college feel like more of a victory? Instead, here he was, climbing to the top floor of his new 'home' nothing but a backpack, duffel bag, and a hollow feeling in his chest.

501…..503…..505.

He could hear someone already in the room as he went to open the door. Great, his roommate was already here. Because gawking and awkward questions were going to be a lovely addition to his day.

Swinging the door opened, he was greeted by "WATCH OUT FOR THE CIRCUITS I STILL HAVEN'T FINISHED PUTTIN' 'EM AWAY!"

Freezing briefly, he peeked around the door to see some electrical components in a rather flimsy box. Looking up, he saw who he assumed to be his roommate. "Uh…hi?"

He was a skinny guy, about Stanford's height. "Fiddleford McGucket, engineering major, I'm guessin' you're Stanford Pines?" He extended a hand in greeting.

Ford took the offered hand, "Yeah, I–"

Breaking away from the handshake and returning to unpacking, Fiddleford asked,"What's your major, Stan?"

"I'm not–…I mean, call me Ford," he corrected, grimacing. "Theoretical physics. Probably." He stepped fully into the room, setting his bag on the empty bed.

"Oh, you've got wings," Fiddleford observed.

Ford bristled slightly at that, "Yeah," he shifted his primary wings up, "In fact, I've got four. Are we gonna have a problem?" He almost faltered when Stanley's face popped to mind unbidden. So he had briefly sounded like his twin. It happened.

Fiddleford shrugged, "Nope, just think it's neat is all."

"..Neat?" Ford's wings drooped out of their defensive tilt.

"Yeah, and do you have any boxes you need help hauling up?" Fiddleford asked.

Ford shifted uncomfortably, "No, this is, uh, this is it." He gestured to his two bags lamely. "I just have to go buy my books, really"

"Well, I reckon as long as you don't mind the odd disassembled TV, we should get along fine," Fiddleford smiled. "Need directions to the bookstore?"

"Yeah, uh, thanks," Ford replied. So maybe his roommate was a bit odd. It wasn't as though he himself was the definition of normal. And maybe he'd be cursing the stairs by the time the first week of classes had passed. But for now it seemed like things would be alright.

Maybe not good, but alright at least.


	6. Chapter 6

It started out so small.

Mabel just wanted to spend time with Grunkle Ford. It'd be good for him, she reasoned with herself. He spends way too much time in that gloomy basement; and his wings really were in a sorry state. Not as bad as Grunkle Stan's, but Stan had an excuse.

She waited until after breakfast. Grunkle Stan had already gone to open up the Shack for business, Dipper was taking a shower(at last), and Ford was finishing the second half of his usual breakfast(two cups of coffee. That can't be healthy).

"Grunkle Ford?" Mabel asked tentatively.

He looked up from his coffee, "Hm?"

"After you finish breakfast, can I groom your wings?" she used her best 'pleading look'. It was the look that made three hundred dollar sales to gullible tourists, that garnered her buckets of sweets every Halloween, and that _no one_ could resist.

"No, uh, that is, that won't be necessary," Ford stumbled through his reply, drawing his battered wings closer to his body.

Mabel frowned, "Well, you've got that wrong. Unless you're gonna let Grunkle Stan or Dipper groom them for you." She crossed her arms for emphasis.

"I'm doing just fine on my own, Mabel," Ford responded sternly. No one touched his wings. _No one._

"Grunkle For-" Mabel started to retort.

"Mabel, sweetie, c'mere and help me?" Stan called from the other room.

"Just a minute, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel called, turning toward the door. When she looked back to lecture her other Grunkle on the importance of proper wing care, he was gone. He'd even left half a cup of coffee.

Frowning even more deeply than before, Mabel resolved to corner her Grunkle Ford by the end of the day.

Ford, for his part, was hiding in his old study. Once sure Mabel didn't pursue him, he spared a brief thought for the carpet that used to be in the room, before sinking into the couch.

Mabel's offer was a heartwarming gesture, really. The level of acceptance intrinsic in the innocent little question should have made him smile, not have a near panic attack and then flee a (likely confused and angry) twelve year old.

Cradling his head in his hands, he went through his usual breathing exercises, while simultaneously attacking each of the components of his current state of mind with logic. Having to remind himself of the rules and social norms of his own dimension had become a daily task. For so long, most of the dimensions he ended up in hadn't heard of winged people outside of myth and fiction. Receptions in those dimensions varied from awe (which he found disconcerting) and innocent interest (which he could definitely understand) to hostility (which, at least, he knew how to deal with) and much less benign interest(no, no, he's not going _there_ again).

Dimensions like his original one(this one, he reminded himself) were rare, wondrous breaths of fresh air. Bittersweet, perhaps, in that they _weren't_ home; but especially towards the beginning of his bizarre journey the familiar was a comfort. Yet now this simple, innocent offer had him on edge. Yes, it was custom for family(and occasionally, close friends) to groom each others wings.

But it wasn't that simple. Just earlier that week he had come close to throwing Stan away from him; simply for expressing concern over an old injury. How could he live with himself if something similar happened with Mabel? No. Far better to just wait for her to forget all about it.

Children always bounced from one endeavor to another. It was just a matter of time.

Mabel was not, in fact, going to forget about it. Oh no. Now she knew that she would have to corner her Grunkle. Grunkle Ford had yet to learn, as Grunkle Stan had, that there were some instances in which Mabel was always going to get her way.

She couldn't go to Dipper on this one. He'd just tell her to leave well enough alone. So would Grunkle Stan.

Nope, this was going to be a Mabel solo mission.

While working on her latest sweater(a red one with a six fingered hand on it) in the living room, she ran through possibilities. What could lure her skittish Grunkle out from where ever he was hiding? What was the one thing guaranteed to coax him into the open without much fuss?

Coffee.

He always came out of the basement when Grunkle Stan made coffee.

Mabel smiled to herself. Grunkle Ford hadn't finished his coffee today. Perfect.

Ford had calmed himself sufficiently that he was going to try sneaking down to the basement and continue his work. The sooner he found a way to deal with that rift, the better. Stepping out of the old study, he found the house perfumed with the smell of strong coffee. Stan must have made another pot after this morning. Strange. Fortuitous, but strange.

While he and Stan weren't necessarily getting along perfectly, they had reached a tacit agreement not to argue further. Stan stayed upstairs, doing whatever he did, and Ford usually remained in the basement, working to contain the end of the world as they knew it.

Walking into the kitchen, intent on the idea of a warm cup of coffee, Ford found a cup waiting for him.

That was wonderful. What wasn't so wonderful was the determined looking twelve year old guarding it.

"Grunkle Ford, I'm not going to sugar coat it," Mabel said. "Your wings need help. Almost make-over level help. And you and Grunkle Stan are still being all stupid."

"That's vastly oversimplifying-" he tried to interrupt.

Mabel's wings tilted menacingly(or as menacingly as a child could manage), "Nuh-uh. He made mistakes, you made mistakes, and you're both being stupid. He's being stupid about his wings and so are you. And—and," she stuttered slightly. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "I don't like when people aren't happy, Grunkle Ford. But there's nothing I can do about this. At least let me fix your wings?" The pleading look was back, full force.

"Mabel, I can't—My work is-" Ford feebly defended.

"Pleaaaaase?" Mabel pleaded.

Ford sighed, "I...fine."

Mabel immediately beamed, "Yay! Now sit down so I can reach all the feathers!"

Ford reflexively brought all of his wings closer for a moment before relaxing and hoping Mabel didn't see the movement beneath his coat. "Ah...the living room perhaps?"

"Okay! I'm gonna get a washcloth first though," she spared his wings a glance. They were more than dusty, but she figured it would help at least.

Eventually, Ford found himself sitting in the middle of the living room, trying to remain relaxed. Mabel started at where his wings met his back and worked her way toward the edges, carefully cleaning and fixing the feathers as she went. It was slow going. Not only had Ford gone far too long without proper wing care, but Mabel was being doubly careful to remember everything she had learned from Stan.

Perhaps that familiarity in technique was what prompted Ford to ask, "Mabel, who taught you this?"

Mabel was silent for a moment, and she set the washcloth back in the bowl of warm water. "Grunkle Stan did," she said quietly. "I mean, Dad tried once, but when I tried to take care of Dipper's wings I broke a feather and I'm sorry did I hurt one of your wings?"

Ford turned around with a placating gesture as he heard the rush of words from Mabel, "No, no, your technique was familiar. That was all." Noting the still stricken look on the girl's face, he added, "Comforting, even."

"Really?" Mabel asked hopefully.

Ford smiled, "Yes, really. " Glancing at his wings, he continued, "And you've certainly made a difference." In fact, his wings were almost presentable now. _Is this were one offers to return the favor?_ "I, uh, could work on your wings for you if you want?"

"Yes please and thank you, Grunkle Ford!" Mabel bounced in place.

Ford was, admittedly, a little rusty at this. But Mabel's colorful macaw wings were in excellent condition. That was one thing that he wondered about. For generations, the Pines family had had wings akin to European birds of prey. Yet both Dipper and Mabel broke that mold. Parrot wings were rather rare in and of themselves as well. He didn't know what he was wondering about, but he was in the habit of cataloging things.

As he moved to working on the inside of her wings, Mabel started giggling. "Grunkle Ford! That tickles, be careful!"

"Sorry-" Ford began apologizing.

Mabel giggled harder, "I just didn't want to hit you in the face like Dipper did to Grunkle Stan once!"

"I—Oh?" He stopped, trying not to laugh at that image.

"Yeah," Mabel's tone sobered somewhat. "Grunkle Stan was fixing Dipper's wing when he got injured and Dipper twitched."

"Ah..." he acknowledged awkwardly. Injured wings were hardly a laughing matter. He of all people would know.

Mabel shifted slightly, looking at her wings, then broke the brief awkward silence by saying, "I think you got everything though. Thank you, Grunkle Ford." She added brightly.

Ford smiled softly, "I think it should be me thanking you, Mabel."


	7. Wing Type Answers and a little PSA

This is copied directly from my blog, and I was also quite certain that I had spelled it out in the main story; but seeing as I have had multiple questions:

 **Wing types**

Stan: Golden Eagle(when he's not messing with the color to impersonate Ford )

Ford: Snowy Owl

Dipper&Mabel's father: Red Tailed Hawk

Dipper: Harpy Eagle

Mabel: Scarlet Macaw

Wendy: American Robin

Robbie: Pigeon(but he dyes the feathers to make them look like crow's wings)

 **No wings:**

Soos

Fiddleford McGucket

Gleeful family

Dipper&Mabel's mother(+her side of the family)

(but seriously, most questions are answered at length on my blog. It keeps the stories on here from getting cluttered)


End file.
